Man of Quality
by Asphalt Angel
Summary: Whenever he has to attend a formal function he brings her. She is safety for him. Royai. Fluffy, cute Royai.


Title: Man of Quality

Warnings: Insider snark about military functions? Heh

Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist is not mine... Excuse me while I go cry in a corner now...

Notes: Woohoo, I've finally broken my streak of only writing two stories per genre! So thank you to everyone who's reviewed my other FMA stories, because you've really encouraged me to keep writing. Also, cheers to being an army brat, otherwise I'd never have been inspired to write this particular piece... and I'd never have learned formal etiquette either! Anyways, read on and enjoy. As always, I adore R&R.

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Whenever he has to attend a formal function, he brings her along.

She knows there are other women he could take- women who would kill to appear on his arm- but she is safety for him. She was, after all, brought up for this life. When she was young, her grandfather insisted on bringing her to military banquets to ensure that the atmosphere stayed lighthearted; he'd found it was impossible for tempers to flare in the presence of an adorable, golden-haired child.

She remembers those days whenever she sees Elysia Hughes in a new party dress and white shoes.

As a grown woman she has to meet far more expectations, of course, and he brings her because she can. She knows how to act with propriety among high-ranking officers, and how to make small talk with their painted doll wives. She knows which forks to use and which glass to drink from, and she is the picture of elegance on the dance floor. She carries a gun concealed beneath her uniform skirt, and keeps his arrayed gloves in her pocket in case of danger.

And it's been this way through countless promotion ceremonies, dances, receptions, and holiday galas.

Tonight it's a dinner party at the home of some influential general, so she puts on her best smile as he offers her his arm, a chivalrous gesture from a bygone age. It's his left arm she's holding- he needs the right to salute- and that is the reminder that this is business. But it's business which lets them blur the line between commander and subordinate, which allows him to laughingly explain that he owes her a night out, so that no one whispers suspicions of fraternization to the wrong ears. It's never a comfortable situation for her, but she is far too disciplined to show it.

She endures the stiff dress uniform, the empty-headed talk, and the late hour because she knows these events are important to him; an officer must be as accomplished in a ballroom as he is on a battlefield, as her grandfather used to say.

She thinks it is the military's greatest contradiction to demand its officers be both savage warriors and gentlemen of quality.

He, of course, meets those demands with more grace than most. But when she catches his eye over her glass of champagne, she sees a certain weariness, and she knows he longs for a day when he can put it all behind him and become a man of peace.

They would never guess it, the officers and ladies surrounding them at table. They think he is ruthless and power-hungry, hard-edged and old before his time. They speak in hushed tones of Ishbal and alchemy. They gossip about his penchant for cheap women and expensive booze. And they believe he will be his own undoing, a self-destructive blaze of glory.

But she has served with him since the wretched days in the desert. She's traded secrets with him in the late night hours.

And so she knows better.

Not surprisingly, the wives corner her when the men go out for a cigar, and question her about her chosen duty. How did she come to be a soldier? Does she truly enjoy it? But doesn't she think of finding some well-bred man to settle down with?

She smiles and shakes her head, and they sigh in dismay, because it's such a waste of a pretty face- and it would be so pretty if she'd just put on some blush and a touch of lipstick, they tell her. What could possibly compel her remain in a such crude and dangerous profession? And under the command of that heartless man, at that?

She tries to explain that she is needed, and that her job is worth doing, but they don't understand. They don't know there is a scar on her shoulder, and a matching one on his, and that neither remembers who took the bullet for the other first.

They don't know she is his safety.

So she finally tells them it's simply the path she's on, and they are content to drop the subject. The conversation turns to other things, and presently the men rejoin them. Dessert is served, followed by more champagne, and soon someone discovers the piano, and an offkey chorus of singing begins.

He slings an arm around her shoulders as he sits down, and- as she expects- his eyes are a little too bright, and his cheeks are flushed from alcohol and tobacco. He nudges her to get her to sing with him, because it's an old training camp song, and both of them know the words- something about promotions, and battles, and reminiscences of an old tavern. She decides, just this once, to induldge him, and joins in.

But it is still business, so when the song winds down, she makes sure he is all right to stand- their joined arms more about balance than chivalry now- and she graciously makes their good-byes. They have parked far enough away that no one sees her take the keys to drive while he slouches, ungentlemanly, in the passenger seat.

She is safety for him, and she is good at it, like she's good at everything else.

But when she pulls up to his door, and he looks at her with a boy's shyness and a man's admiration, she wonders if it's more than that. And when he leans in clumsily to kiss her cheek, tilting his head down so he catches the corner of her lips, she thinks she knows.

And that makes it all worth doing.

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Endnotes: Should any of you be curious, the song referenced in this fic is _Benny Haven's_. It's an old army song about a bar near West Point. The implied verse is "_May the army be augmented, promotions be less slow. May our country in her hour of need be ready for the foe. May we find a soldier's resting place beneath a soldier's blow, and room enough inside our graves for Benny Haven's, Oh_!" I liked the image of Roy getting a little drunk and singing, heh.


End file.
